I really thought I knew what physical pain felt like. I’d break a sweat running up to the third floor of the Humanities building; I’d sprint across campus, 50 minutes late to my SRP class; I’d drag myself up and down the Colony stairs during the intramural crew triathlons.
Nothing compares to one day this winter, when I learned that physical pain can stretch farther than I previously ever imagined it to be. I was so ready, hyped, and excited for the first rapid interval session of off-season: an 8 times two minute sprint, on the worst machine humankind has ever made—the erg. Why I joined winter rowing, I guess I simply wanted to cut down my erg scores. The lake had frozen over, the temperature was dropping like llamas off a cliff, and my rock climbing sport for winter had just been canceled. Thus, I asked my coach. “What do you think about winter erging? Should I join?” “I think you’d enjoy it,” she said. You know, it’s so funny how you really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, until you experience it, flesh and blood.
Yes, flesh and blood. We’re all panting as the 5th of 8 intervals starts in less than 30 seconds. My faith in finishing this piece is wavering like a pendulum; my back hurts, my lungs hurt, my eyes hurt, it’s cold, it’s sweaty, it’s stuffy, the sun is blinding, the wind bites at every inch of bare skin, and the sky glooms over in cloudy whiteness. I experience the pinnacle of all my muscle fibers’ screams of pain, reminding me that I’m halfway through. Only halfway! All this effort for half of the hellish workout—would it be humanly possible to scrape up enough watts to even pull on that rusty chain for another second? On second thought, the chain shouldn’t even be rusty. What a terrible condition, Choate needs to replace her ergs. Deerfield has all those wonderful ergs lined up in pristine condition—
Thump. A hard slap wakes me up from all trailing thoughts. “Come on, you can do this! We’re starting!” It’s my erg neighbor, SK, equally exhausted as I am, light flickering in her eyes. “YEAHH!” I shout, attempting to gather confidence. In all honesty, though, the crippling fear of crumbling under the intense discomfort and pain that is to come is overwhelming. But I also know that I am capable, and my teammates left and right to me are “in the same boat” as myself. Pulling that split. Taking down that score. Am I really physically capable? What if I just die? Come on, Jewon; negative thoughts won’t take you anywhere. With a deep breath, I grip the blue, plastic handle, still slick with sweat from the last interval. Mmmph, my back almost seems to groan. A crack, a stretch, and my burning muscles scrunch to push against the sliding seat. The interval has started!
The seconds count down from 1:59. Long, hard strokes. 1, mississippi, 2 mississippi. I’m going! I’m really doing this! Strokes go by smoothly, and I can feel my form on the erg settling as perfect as it can be; my back is straight, my legs push, my arms hang straight, and my lats tug fiercely. Pull, pull, pull. Push, push, push. After what feels like forever, I look at the timer again:
1:40.
The timer is such a scam.
Every interval is harder than the last, and cardio suffers. The second to last, the 7th one, is the most difficult of all; you know that you have one more left, so you can’t go all out and sprint like a madman. But it’s also nearing the end, you’re about to pass out, and you still have to pull the same score as all the ones that came before.
I try to shake my tiredness off. Most importantly, I am strong. Somehow, I managed to pull a faster split on that last interval, even through all those bloody breaths. The right trend, the right mentality!
“WE GOT THIS!”
The phrase rings around with every teammate’s voice, and we plunge into the last interval, my vision slowly tunneling and desperately holding onto any sort of focus. But giving up is not an option; it’s the epitome of sunk cost fallacy and adrenaline. One stroke aggressively leads to the next, the stroke rate shoots up, and every pair of eyes of every rower stays glued to their screens. The first minute passes by with surprising ease as we hold on for dear life, the last of our mitochondria chugging out ATP. The last minute… no looking back. We only look at the 59 seconds that blink down like a snail slipping down concrete. I tensely grin through the sweaty pain as I see my split getting faster, a final rush to the end. 30 strokes left. 20 strokes. 15 strokes. 10 strokes.
8 left. 6 left. 5 left.
Finish it strong, Jewon.
Four. Three. Two.
The timer blinks. One last excruciating stroke of every strength I ever had, and there it is: the golden number, zero.
The plastic handles clunk against metal as the rowers release their grips, and all anyone can hear is panting. You… I… we look at each other in exhilaration. No words pass; only silent, damp fist bumps and clammy high fives. The day is over.
No, really. It’s over. Wasn’t that hard, was it? Hmm.
Why do rowers even pull away at this dreaded machine? Crew, during its season, truly embodies the core nature of teamwork across the category of team sports, with all rowers on the boat swaying as one, swinging our oars and gliding across the water in unity. Off-season, consisting of only long and painful land practices, it’s only a race against yourself and your scores. It’s never with the same team spirit, albeit with everyone going through the same cries and dopamine rushes as they gain speed on the erg.
It’s a competition against my past self. Compared to others? I have to say, oftentimes, I enter my erg score in the public google sheets with the slowest speed. It was expected; during the COVID year, I took a year off, hindering my entire physical capabilities. Most regrettable year of my life? Maybe. But what I love is really about my present objective speed; it’s about my improvement, and the team spirit of cheering each other on and rowing as one, even when not on the water. I learn from this sport that you can enjoy something to its fullest every day while not being the best, maybe hating it on some days, loving it on others, all the while bonding with people more strongly above everything else. Friends, teammates, we are one. A unifying force, I am so blessed to find something I love so much to the point where nothing else matters, even how well I do against other people. I think there’s a word for this. Ah, what is it called again?
My passion.